Cold Comes the Night is a B-movie noir handsomely mounted and professionally acted, both Cranston and Eve giving far more of themselves to the production than it probably deserves. The script, credited to director Tze Chun, Osgood Perkins and Nick Simon, doesn’t do a ton that isn’t expected, and other than a rather sudden bullet directed into the head of a relative innocent I can’t say I was ever shocked by anything that took place.
Love Survivor not just a touching testament to the soldiers who fight and die for the country that the love but also a rousing aria speaking to the better angels the world over hoping to make it a better place to live for each and every one of us.
The central mythos behind these Paranormal Activity adventures is intriguing, but the meandering nature propelling The Marked Ones onward is growing tiresome. It’s getting played out, the handicaps of the ‘found footage’ framing device starting to handicap the proceedings more than they are helping it rustle up tension or scares.
But like a Tennessee Williams play drug through the Oklahoma mud, as despicable and as ugly as much of what transpires over a couple days with the Westons might be it’s still a heck of a lot of fun to behold. Each character, no matter how brief the time they have on the screen, is a complicated morass of human frailties and failings, each trying their best to trudge their way through them as they look to find a semblance of happiness and peace they rarely get the opportunity to know.
[As] agreeably as Stallone anchors things, Grudge Match hardly matters when taken as a whole, the punches it lands devoid of power and strength sending the audience down for the count long before the bell for the opening round is rung.
Yet Fiennes’ eye is a dynamic one, seeing right to the heart of Morgan’s dexterous script with sharply acute meticulousness. When Jones’ stupendous performance is thrown into the mix The Invisible Woman materializes into greatness, the best of times to be found sifting through its romantic quagmire as gifted author and imprudent admirer look up into one another’s eyes and wonder where the mutual infatuations will lead them.
Thurber’s story is still the only classic element, but that doesn’t make the film less worthwhile. While fantasy and reality don’t always inhabit the same plane with comforting ease the fact the conversation they’re having remains worth having no matter what is a superlative daydream I didn’t want to see come to an end.
The Wolf of Wall Street is the kind of movie I feel like I need to watch multiple times in order to get a proper hold of. It’s disgusting central figures and the way it looks at them with such dispassionate clarity is as off-putting and as ugly as it should be, the bad taste building in my mouth as indispensable as it is unexpected.
[American Hustle] plays like some bizarre, retro 70s-style amalgam of Dog Day Afternoon, Dirty Rotten Scoundrels, Donnie Brasco and Ocean’s Eleven, Russell mashing up genres and styles with skillfully energetic enthusiasm. He and Singer use a real F.B.I. sting operation as basis to go hog wild, taking a gifted ensemble of actors and giving them complicated characters to inhabit where nothing is ever what it seems and anything can happen to the lot of them at any given time.